Chapter 39: Eat It! The Power of Perception!

Ian's gaze was drawn to the golden apple—its shimmering surface was as exquisite as a work of art.

Beside him, Pandero urged him on impatiently.

"Quick! Eat it now! Before the old witch sees it—she'll snatch it away for sure!"

Without waiting for Ian's response, Pandero shoved the apple toward his mouth with an alarming lack of restraint.

"Cough! Cough!"

This was Ian's first time consuming anything from the Ethereal Realm. The abruptness of it nearly choked him, but to his surprise, the apple, despite being larger than his fist, melted effortlessly in his mouth.

"Ian is glowing!"

Ariana's startled exclamation rang out.

Ian couldn't see her expression.

A wave of warmth surged through his body—an unfamiliar yet exhilarating sensation, as if his very soul was being cleansed. Instinctively, he shut his eyes, allowing himself to fully experience it. His body pulsed with newfound vitality and energy.

Bang!

The sound of metal crashing against a wall echoed through the hall, snapping Ian out of his trance. He barely had time to process it before Pandero's voice—laced with urgency—resounded in his ears.

"She heard me call her an old hag! We need to go—now! Move it!"

"Ian, we'll meet you in town!"

Ariana and Pandero's voices overlapped as they faded into the distance.

Ian had no idea how much time had passed. When he finally opened his eyes, the once-vanished furniture had returned to the grand hall, and the witch was standing before him, regarding him with a gaze full of intrigue.

"Well, well… they actually found it."

She clicked her tongue, both surprised and amused.

"Professor," Ian began, his mind still reeling, "I recall you saying that you cut down the last golden apple tree in existence?"

Within the Ethereal Realm, Ian couldn't access his status panel to check for changes, but he could feel it—his mind had never been clearer.

"It seems," the witch mused, "that before I could cut down the last one, someone smuggled a seed into this place."

Ian's eyes widened. "Wait—someone else was capable of doing that?"

The witch shook her head.

"You foolish child. No other sorcerer is quite like you, so none would receive the same favor you do. I only meant that someone managed to bring a seed here. That's a far cry from what you are."

She paused, then added, "I have no idea how they did it. But history is full of brilliant, eccentric sorcerers. Many legends have accomplished feats that defy reason."

Her gaze lingered on Ian's young face, her voice lowering into a murmur.

"After all, what makes a legend a legend is their ability to achieve the impossible."

The tapestries lining the walls trembled as she spoke, as if responding to her words. In the woven images, flames seemed to flicker more vividly, dancing with renewed life.

"Maybe I can find something useful in the academy's library," Ian muttered to himself, contemplating. There weren't many sorcerers in history who truly deserved the title of 'legend.'

The witch snorted. "Why waste your time? Ask that damned butcher friend of yours instead. If he brought you that golden apple, then he must have already known where the tree was growing."

Ian frowned. "His memories are fading. There's not much left of them."

"How tragic," the witch said with an insincere smile.

"Teacher, I apologize on his behalf," Ian said, lowering his head slightly. "He has always been reckless. But I promise I will find your mirror for you—and anything else you desire—as compensation for his actions."

At this, the witch's expression softened slightly.

"I only want my mirror," she said, but after a brief pause, she added, "And the dragon he promised me."

Ian blinked.

Of course.

She had been listening the entire time.

"Consider it done!" he quickly agreed. Though the witch's mood had improved, she still took a moment to curse Pandero under her breath.

"That damn fool! That wretched executioner! That thieving, lowlife bastard!"

Ian raised an eyebrow. "He must have been quite extraordinary in life, wasn't he?"

The witch shot him an exasperated look.

"Oh, my dull-witted apprentice, why do you insist on asking such obvious questions?"

Ian hesitated. "Obvious?"

"The answer has always been right in front of you," she said, heaving a dramatic sigh. "You simply refuse to see the truth."

Ian frowned. What truth? What was he missing?

"Teacher, I admit I'm slow sometimes, so… can't you just tell me who he is?"

The witch let out a sharp laugh.

"You're a piglet, but I am not. Do you think I'd hand him back his memories on a silver platter? If he remembers, he'll just stick around for years to come! Why would I do that to myself?"

She clearly had no patience for Pandero.

And, frustratingly enough… her reasoning made perfect sense.

Ian didn't know how to respond.

The witch studied him for a moment, then suddenly changed the subject.

"You realize," she said, "that nothing in this castle—not the artifacts, not the servants, not even the abilities I have shown you—are magic. They are merely constructs shaped by perception."

Ian blinked. "Perception?"

"Yes," the witch confirmed. "In this realm, perception dictates what you can and cannot do."

She tilted her head slightly.

"I believe in the power of knowledge. But he—" her expression darkened slightly "—believes he can do anything, simply because he wills it to be so. And three times now, he has proven that his belief is stronger than mine."

Her voice carried a bitter edge. There was something else beneath it—resentment, perhaps. Or regret.

Ian struggled to process the idea. "You're telling me... he's been using sheer confidence to pull off miracles?"

"Precisely." The witch sighed. "It defies all logic. That mere belief can outmatch knowledge itself. But perhaps… that, too, is an impossible miracle."

Ian was still mulling over her words, trying to decipher if there was a deeper meaning hidden within them, when the witch suddenly turned away.

Her gaze landed on the shattered remains of the suits of armor that had once stood as her sentinels.

"You will help me restore these guards," she declared.

Ian hesitated.

"...Excuse me?"

Moments ago, they had been discussing Pandero, yet she had abruptly jumped to another topic entirely.

The way this old woman's mind works is terrifying.

"Wasn't the dragon supposed to be compensation enough?" Ian protested.

"That is restitution for his mistakes," the witch corrected him, smirking. "This is your responsibility as my apprentice."

She picked up one of Ian's textbooks—a copied edition of an alchemical compendium—and flipped it open.

"I only know how to make figurines, not moving metal warriors," Ian argued, raising his hands in surrender.

The witch's smirk deepened.

"Then learn."

The words struck Ian with a sense of déjà vu.

"...So this is my new assignment?" he asked, resigned.

"I don't expect you to master it in a few days," the witch said, tearing a scrap of fabric from her robe. Arcane symbols shimmered across its surface.

"Next time, go back to that girl's town first. Then, come find me."

She flicked the fragment toward him, and Ian caught it. The small piece of fabric was covered in densely packed runes.

"I'm afraid I won't have enough time."

His body was already beginning to fade.

"You will. Things are different now."

There was quiet certainty in her tone. She never once looked up, fully absorbed in the textbook Ian had brought.

...

..

.

Tick... Tick... Tick...

The clock hands moved.

Ian's eyes snapped open.

For once, he didn't check the time on the wall. He didn't even look at the scrap of fabric in his hand. Instead, his fingers moved instinctively—he opened his personal interface without hesitation.